Oh the Places We'll Go
by Muragaragah
Summary: The annual World Conference is being held in Moscow, Russia this year, and what better way to get there than to take a road trip across Europe, picking up nations along the way? At least, that's what Britain thinks. Rated T to be safe. Collab fic!


_**Disclaimer:**__ We don't own Hetalia, Himaruya does!_  
><em><strong>Arashi91<strong>_: Hi everyone! This is a collab fic between me and my awesome amie Prairie Blossom, who is amazing to work with and has an impeccable writing style herself! We hope you enjoy this little story.  
><em><strong>Prairie Blossom<strong>_: Thanks for the intro, my friend! Warning: this fic contains personified nations stuck in very compromising situations, just like every other fic in this category. If that does not bother you (and if it does, what brought you here?), then read on!~

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><p><em>Lyon.<em>

Slender fingers drummed against a leather-clad onyx steering wheel in time with the low music resonating from the impressive stereo system that Britain had had his Mini Cooper outfitted with. He reserved this car specifically for long trips - much like the one in which he found himself, having to drive all of the way across Europe in order to attend the annual World Conference that was to be held in Moscow in two weeks. Carding one hand through choppy, flaxen-hued locks he guided the car down an impossibly-narrow side street, cutting away from the main traffic of Lyon with a sigh of relief; the driver that was previously behind him had tailgated the Englishman for God knows how many miles.

Emerald eyes swept the street in front of him as he slowed to a halt, locking on the two people that he had intentionally bisected the country of France in order to pick up for this road trip of sorts: traipsing toward the car with a young lady in tow was the magnificent national personification of France himself, complete with his usual garishly vibrant military uniform and a de-thorned, freshly-cut rose occupying his left hand. He held the backseat door open for his lady friend, who whispered a quiet _"merci beaucoup"_ before perching behind the seat that France slid into in the front of the car. "_Salut, mon cher Angleterre!_ Nice weather for a road trip, _non?"_

With a quick glance to the face of the digital radio just south of the dashboard that incessantly blinked whenever the minute would change, Britain nodded as a hand flitted up in greeting before finding its spot back around the steering wheel. "It is, actually, but it's rather subject to change once we disembark from Lyon, since we'll be going through different regions and countries." His gaze alighted upon the rear view mirror, reflecting back the cerulean-eyed, dark blonde-haired young woman in the backseat, already absently staring out the window while adjusting the argentine frames perched on the bridge of her nose. "How are you, Miss Monaco? I trust that the Frog didn't try any of his silly romantic games on you before I arrived, did he?"

Monaco simply shook her head, not bothering to spare a glance in Britain's direction. France, on the other hand, now wore an expression of mock astonishment before his voice spiked in pitch. "You really think that _I_ would do that to poor little Monaco? The answer is _non!_I know how to behave when in the presence of women! I only get away with that with the men, anyway, and you know that."

Britain noticeably shivered as he reached the end of the side street that he found himself on, hitting the accelerator and whipping the car sharply left once a miniscule opening appeared within the steady flow of traffic occupying the main streets. "Anyway... France, I trust that you have the route that we're taking mapped out already?"

A hand dove into one of the pockets of France's military uniform before he fished out a thick bunch of folded papers, all held together by a single staple. _"Oui, Angleterre,_of course I do! First we are going to head northeast into Switzerland, where we can probably spend the night if we need to... after that we're headed to Stuttgart in Germany, Warsaw in Poland, Minsk in Belarus, and finally Moscow in Russia!"

Britain nodded, gesturing to the insane gaggle of cars currently in front of his own vehicle. "So... would you mind telling me how to avoid the madhouse that is French traffic? One guy almost took my bloody bumper off as I started across France from Paris..."

Monaco took the liberty to scoot closer to the front seat and point off to the right, motioning to a seemingly-vacant side avenue. "Take that street. You will avoid the main roads if you stay on it." She replaced herself properly in her seat, gently wringing her hands every so often as she resumed her piercing gaze out of the backseat window.

With a hum and a quick "Thank you," Britain did as he was told and found to his relief that the young woman was indeed correct. The road went one-direction only, which made the drive ten times easier immediately, but moreover it was only two lanes wide and traversed a much quieter portion of the city's downtown. A few small businesses lined the two sides of the avenue: a butcher shop here, a gift store there. To the island Nation, the change in atmosphere was welcome, even charming.

"Ah, _ma petite_," France cooed, and Britain's relieved mood began to evaporate, "You remember how to navigate through my city? I am touched, _chère_."

Monaco didn't bother to tear her gaze away from the outside they passed by, but her two latté-colored brows lowered very close to her eyes. "I have visited you every year in August since the end of the Second World War, and you thought I _wouldn't_remember?"

The Frenchman pouted and began to go on and on about how her "cruel words pierced his heart" while Britain pursed his lips. _She has? What exactly is the nature of their relationship?_, he wondered as he veered left at a sign with the name of the highway that led to Zurich printed in bold lettering.

"_Francis, tu fais un fou de toi_," the Micronation warned, pinching the brink of her nose.

_"Désolé,"_ he apologized and bowed his head. "Why don't we all stop for lunch? I'm sure that _Angleterre_has not eaten in hours."

"I feel just fine," Britain grit out between clenched teeth, but barely a heartbeat later his stomach audibly growled, whining to its owner at the mention of food.

France beamed. "Well, that settles the matter. Turn left on Rue Mercière, _s'il te plaît."_

Britain glared down at his middle. "Traitor," he muttered to it as he followed the signs. "Do you mind telling me where we are going, at least?" he petitioned to the flamboyant man beside him.

"Why, only the _finest_ eating establishment in all of the country, and therefore the finest in the world." France's eyes gleamed as he brought his rose up to his cheek, allowing the bright sunlight to cast a lovely pink shade through the petals and onto his cheek. "Although you can never go back to eating your terribly bland cod and chips after taking one bite, _mon petit rosbif_."

"I sincerely doubt that." Still, Britain decided not to order fish, just in case.

A few minutes later, Britain realized the true reason why his reluctant companion spoke so highly of the restaurant; its name was '_Bonnefoy's_.'

The moment the three Nations walked through the front door, the host's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He promptly dropped his small stack of menus on his podium and hastily scampered to greet France with an anxious handshake, speaking exceptionally rapid French from which the Brit could only translate "Honored to have you," and "The next table is yours."

It took no time before all three national personifications found themselves seated at a lavishly-decorated table that seemed to stand out from the others, though it was situated more or less in the corner of the posh restaurant for privacy's sake. Britain held back the amused chuckle that mounted in his throat from watching the restaurant staff rush around in frenzied haste, whispering and sometimes shouting orders in French to one another as they assumed protocol for the rare arrival of the restaurant's owner. The smile that had begun to pull at the corners of his mouth was immediately whisked away with one glance at the Frenchman seated opposite him, who muttered incoherent French phrases to the waiter flanking him; Monaco perched at the edge of her chair almost as if she were expecting or waiting for something to happen, all the while switching between lacing her fingers together and wringing her hands. "Is something on your mind, Miss Monaco?" Britain leant over and asked in quiet tones, knowing that the Frog would be too preoccupied with his business to take notice of anything.

Monaco simply shook her head, a feeble smile traipsing across her dainty lips before an onslaught of waiters arrived, most laden with food but a few holding drinks. Hot plates were placed in front of all three countries, as well as French bread rolls and a half glass of garnet wine. France eyed the Englishman across from him expectantly, wearing none other than what Britain assumed to be his 'show-off' grin plastered across his face as he chanced a sip of wine. The alcohol stood out above the faint flavor of freshly-smashed grapes though the tastes mingled delightfully upon the pompous Brit's tongue. "Well? What are you waiting for? You are hungry, _non?"_France remarked with the wave of a fork.

As if in reply Britain's stomach audibly gurgled; he scowled and brandished his own argentine cutlery, slicing off a petite bite of the coq au vin that had been set in front of him just minutes previously. Monaco worked away at her own food with a practised touch as Britain raised the piece of food to his lips before nibbling at it, though he knew for certain that he didn't ever have to take a nervous bite of food prepared by France. The chicken melded with the wine sauce that it had stewed in perfectly, of course complimented by the wine selection that France had no doubt hand-selected before they arrived. Somehow he had planned all of this out, Britain knew that, but at the same time he didn't particularly care at that moment since the basic need for food rose above all else. "Of course it's good," Britain commented after a moment, his tone threaded with heavy rhetoric, "I didn't really need to take a bite to know that, damn show-offy Frog."

France's grin deepened as his trademark _'honhonhon'_ chuckle resonated within his throat. "_C'est vrai,_but I couldn't resist having you affirm for me in person that my cooking bests yours any day!"

"What? I never said anything about that!" Britain scoffed, teeth gnashing together. "You love to put words in my mouth, don't you? Always have, haven't you?"

Monaco sighed as the two bickered - really, she expected to have gotten used to this kind of thing by now, but to her it always seemed like hearing them for the first time whenever they decided to go at each other's throats. Somehow, between hateful comments flung at each other across the table, all three finished their meals within an hour's time; satisfyingly sated (though Britain would never admit it) they took leave of the restaurant for the emerald Mini Cooper once again.

"It's going to be six o'clock by the time we get to Switzerland's house," Britain sighed, gazing down at his watch as he opened the passenger side rear door and allowed Monaco to slide back into her seat. "It would probably be best if we stayed the night there after all, wouldn't it?"

"_Oui_, or else Germany would be quite upset that we picked him up in the middle of the night," Monaco hummed in agreement.

France on the other hand, pouted as he assumed his seat in the front. "Aw, but why not stay with Germany instead? That sounds like so much more fun to have all five of us together, fast asleep like _les petits enfants_."

"Absolutely not!" Britain huffed as he closed Monaco's door and circled the car to get in behind the steering wheel. "Honestly, Francis, whatever happened to having no perverted thoughts around Miss Monaco?"

"But I had none, I only thought how cute we would be. 'Cute' and 'perverted' have nothing to do with each other." A champagne-colored eyebrow quirked as a thought crossed the Frenchman's mind, causing his lips to narrow and his eyes to glint impishly. "Why do you ask, _Angleterre_? Did you have something in mind that you would like to share?"

"Of course I don't!" Britain snapped just a little too quickly, grinding his teeth.

"_Vraiment_? Because if you are not comfortable sharing your thoughts, that can only mean one thing."

"Wh—how—why you—_put a sock in it_!" The keys were jammed into the ignition and the engine revved to life at the sound of more of France's playful taunting and Britain's ironically earsplitting denials.

Meanwhile, in her place in the back seat, Monaco rubbed the corner of her eye in an effort to ward off an imminent headache. If there was one thing that she knew for sure, it was that this would be a _very_ long trip.

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><p><em>To be continued.<em>


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